


Dusted with Stars and Martian Sand

by bluejorts



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Exhibitionism, Masturbation, NOW WITH ART??? FUCK!!!, Other, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Nureyev, Trans Porn by Trans People, WAIT its peter/both his hands bc he just. has to be ambidextrous, also juno IS still involved its just a fantasy..., fantasy juno......, its more like 'peter nureyev/his right hand' but thats fine, self-recorded?? i dont know why i cant think of the name for this rn???, where all ur dreams.............
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 06:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejorts/pseuds/bluejorts
Summary: It's another stupid idea.But.Well.He has an hour.Nureyev has a job on Mars and a hot date with Juno's empty apartment.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 16
Kudos: 165





	Dusted with Stars and Martian Sand

**Author's Note:**

> i am quarantined alone and i would like to k*ss someone that doesnt have ANY bearings on this i just think people need to know that im yearning
> 
> Warnings:  
> \- peter is trans n uses the word dick to talk about his junk! he fantasizes about juno fingering him and talks specifically about the feeling of it, so if thats something that might be triggering for you please take care of yourself and dont feel like you have to read this!!! get a cookie and watch a tiktok compilation.  
> \- he also records himself masturbating! what wont this man do!! but if thats something that might be upsetting you should leave this and make yourself a cup of tea!!
> 
> also because im awful the doc name for this was 'nureyevs fun masturbation hour'
> 
> NOW WITH ART BY @wastrelwoods (god i dont know if ao3 uses @'s huh) THAT IM CURRENTLY LOSING! MY MIND AT!!

Peter Nureyev has visited a thousand places. 

Or.

Well.

_Peter Nureyev_ has not. 'The man to whom the name Nureyev belongs' would be a better way of putting it. Names don't travel, if he can help it. _Nureyev_ specifically, is a name that has been spoken in three places only. The first being the planet its owner originated on. The second a small, refurbished (and repurposed) leisure ship. And the third the planet its owner currently stands on: Mars.

Of the thousands of places that the man (under different titles and different faces) has visited, Mars is one of the most _wretched_ and, unfortunately, beautiful. 

He sees its beauty as he walks; the technicolour life and facade of ancient architecture. And he feels its mocking, bloodstained grin as he passes by a spot where he long ago stood next to a man he'd fallen for in less than a day.

He tries not to feel the bite of that grin as he climbs familiar stairs and picks a lock he's picked before. 

When Juno had suggested Nureyev stay in his old apartment, he'd been hesitant. The idea of revisiting Hyperion had felt strange and uncomfortable anyway, what with the festering hate he'd built up for it in his mind. And to enter into the space Juno had returned to after leaving him that night… it felt wrong. But, there was another week and a half left on the lease, and it _was_ close to his mark. And Juno wasn't leaving him again. He hoped.

Walking inside there's a strange amount of nostalgia. He flicks the light on and watches the bulb spit at him before it settles. The room is almost exactly as Nureyev remembers; bookshelf in one corner (all real, actual paper tomes that Juno was unable to bring aboard the Carte Blanche), coffee table currently bereft of coffee cups but covered with enough rings to make up for it, couch against a back wall. 

It's stupid. 

He shouldn't.

He switches off the light and carefully makes his way around the coffee table in the dark to sit on the couch. He spreads his arms across the back, folds one leg over the other, and conjures the feeling of anticipation. The memory of sitting there with the knowledge that _Juno Steel_ would walk through that door at any second. It feels childish, thinking about it. Naïve. He didn't know Juno then, really. Placed him on this pedestal soon as he saw him; this perfect, brash lady he'd met who stole the heat of a star and makes it bloom in Nureyev's chest whenever he smiles.

Nureyev huffs a laugh. Maybe he still keeps him on that pedestal, but maybe the inscription underneath is different now that he truly _knows_ Juno.

In his mind, he plays the scene of Juno entering. Cursing and muttering under his breath as he searches for the light. And switching it on. That moment, where the light pops and catches and Juno meets his eye. And then…

_Nureyev_ . In his voice. It's been hardly a day since he last heard Juno speak but he misses it so deeply it could have been weeks. He remembers the feeling then, the rush of something _new_ through him at getting to hear his own name for the first time in _so long_. 

He remembers wanting to hear it said again. And again. And _again_.

He remembers thinking about the first time he was here, letting his mind linger on that kiss. Sitting on the couch and smiling to himself as he thought of how he wanted to press Juno down into it, job be damned. Remembers being so _taken_ by the little noises Juno made against his mouth, enraptured and entranced and wanting to hear every possible sound that he could wring from him.

He kicks his shoes off and lies across the length of it, staring up at the static on the ceiling, the light from outside coming in slanted and narrowed through the blinds and moving like a tide as cars pass by. He wonders how often Juno did this, lay here and stared. Thinking about that kiss. 

He toys with the edge of a frayed blanket underneath him. It's odd to think of this room as having been used since last they met, to think of it being lived in like that. Odd, but reassuring, he finds. Reassuring to be so surrounded by evidence of Juno's continued existence. 

He's not sure when he ends up falling asleep but he wakes up with a stiff neck. Outside, things have darkened considerably, the neon shining bright against the dim sky. He stands and stretches and almost falls back with the rush of blood away from his head. He steadies himself against the wall and chuckles. He wonders how many times Juno did _that_. 

The kitchen is predictably bare, and it's not as if Nureyev would have any idea _how_ to cook if there was anything there, so he picks up one of many take-out pamphlets and dials the number on his comms. He orders, is informed of the hour wait time and sets his comms down with a drum of his fingers against the coffee table. 

He has no idea what to do now. 

This is Juno's space. _Was_ Juno's space. He _wants_ to nose around; wants to dig through drawers and overturn new facts about his life, but he knows that anything that _really_ matters to the man is already long gone, some four hundred miles up from him now. So he contents himself with making a sweep of the apartment and cataloguing everything he can tell about Juno from what's been left behind; from the books on his shelves, the dishes in his cupboard, the few novelty mugs he left behind. When he reaches the door to his bedroom, he hesitates. This isn't intruding. Juno specifically offered up his bed. Nureyev _shares_ his bed aboard the Carte Blanche, why should this be any different? Why does it feel like he's breaking in?

The door doesn't creak as it opens, but it feels like it should. Light from the hall spills inwards and falls over the small mess on the floor Nureyev suspects Juno made as he packed this life away to board the Carte Blanche. The first time he’d visited this place, he’d thought about coming in here. About sweeping Juno up and carrying him through, pressing him up against the door to close it, kissing him senseless and then depositing him onto the bed, making sure to leave him with keepsakes in shape of lovebites to remember _Rex Glass_ by. Give him a night he wouldn't be able to forget if he tried. 

But that didn't happen. And Nureyev was the one left with bruises on his collar that he slathered makeup over during the day and pressed his fingers against at night (just to feel the pain of it more real than the ache in his heart).

He lifts his hand to his neck, ghosts the pads of his fingers over where Juno left a mark not two days ago, and smiles. Stupid of him to get so caught up in that night in the way that he does, really. 

And then he moves his hand to trail over the doorframe and his smile widens into a grin, a glint in his eye for nobody but himself. 

It's another _stupid_ idea. 

But.

Well.

He has an hour. 

He steps into the room and lets the door fall half closed, shrouding the room again in a layer of darkness. In here the curtains are drawn, blocking out all light from the outside world. It's just him and the shadowy suggestions of furniture. He pulls his tie loose as he stands waiting for his eyes to adjust and begins on the buttons of his shirt. By the time he can see enough to pick a path out to the bed his shirt is open and one hand runs up over his chest. He shrugs it off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor as he walks towards the bed. His trousers follow along the way, taking one sock with them, and the other he pulls off once he reaches the edge of the mattress. Juno didn't strip the sheets, the duvet lies unmade to one side and Nureyev smiles. He leans over and shakes it into shape, smoothing out the wrinkles with his hands. It's pointless, he knows he'll be doing worse than wrinkling them in a few minutes.

As soon as the bed is presentable he crawls onto it and collapses, burying his face in the pillows. He takes a very deep breath and picks up just the faint scent of Juno; his perfume, shower gel, sweat. That natural scent unique to him, something like the heat of summer on Earth, grassy and mellow. He trails one hand over the sheets and imagines Juno lying there in his stead. He knows that Juno has a habit of sleeping to one side of a bed, no matter how big it is, he wonders which side he favoured here. He wonders if he would lie on his side even without someone to hold him. 

He wonders exactly how Juno got off lying here.

It sends cold fire through him, that thought. Would he touch himself in this spot? In the exact position that Nureyev finds himself in now? Nureyev's hand slides down his side and trails up over his ass. Would Juno bury his face in the pillows like this as he fucked his fist? Ass in the air, begging to be filled? He moves his fingers over the lace on the waistband of the underwear he still wears, teasing himself. Would he moan? Would he silence himself? 

Juno is loud without meaning to be, Nureyev knows that for a fact. He whimpers and he moans as Nureyev touches him like he's being set alight in the most incredible way. He's so beautifully, wonderfully sensitive. 

Nureyev rolls over and pulls his underwear off in one movement, and then he's naked on Juno Steel's bed.

He lets his hand ghost over his stomach, a whisper of a touch that he shivers at. He thinks about what Juno's hand would feel like. The warmth of his fingers hovering over his skin. Another thing Juno is; warm. Inside and out. When Nureyev touches him it strikes him, the heat against his palm. He wants to surround that heat, wrap his arms around Juno and not let go even once the temperature of the two of them has evened out. He's done so on multiple occasions, but he wouldn't right now.

If Juno were here right now… he bites his lip. Would Nureyev want to touch him, to pin him to his bed and lave attention over him until he's red faced and gasping. Or would Nureyev want him to watch? _Does_ Nureyev want him to watch? 

He thinks about the comms in the pocket of his trousers, which - unless he's less alone in here than he thought - are still lying at the foot of the bed. He thinks about the _camera_ on said comms. 

He thinks he might just be reckless enough to risk a lifetime of avoiding cameras for a little time in the limelight. He thinks Juno might make him that reckless.

He clambers back across the bed and treads lightly again through the post-packing mess on the floor. He pulls his comms out and casts his eyes around for a place to set it where he'll be clearly visible. The bedside table seems his best bet, he thinks. He places it, lies back down to check the screen, and huffs when the angle is off.

He gets back up and drags the table across the floor a little ways. Better. But the light is still too dim, coming through only where the door is ajar, and he doesn't want to turn the bulb on the ceiling on. He wishes briefly that whoever had wired this room had somehow foreseen the need for intimacy and installed a dimmer, and then he rolls his eyes and scans the room for anywhere that Juno may have packed away an old lamp that he could throw a t-shirt over to call mood lighting. 

There's a closet built into one wall that seems to be his best bet, and when he opens it he's delighted to find a few well organised boxes of useless items and broken electronics, among which he finds a string of fairy lights, small and delicate, with star shaped casings. He raises his eyebrows at them; they really don't seem like Juno's style, but he loads a new battery into the pack and flicks them on, expecting them to be broken. 

He flinches back when they do light up, eyes so adjusted to the dark that even their dim twinkling is intrusive. But after a moment to adjust he smiles and brings them over to the bed.

He adjusts some settings on his comms so that it picks up the light as he lays them over the duvet and then (after making sure to press record) lies down himself atop them. A memory comes forward in his mind, something Juno had said once that he'd latched onto and treasured regardless of the tone it had been spoken in: _you swing in out of nowhere on a beam of goddamn starlight._ He wonders if that memory will pass through Juno's head as he watches this and buries his face in his elbow to hide his smile. 

He shifts a little and feels the points of the stars dig into his back, the cool of the wires against his skin. It's slightly uncomfortable, but the vision of himself in his head; pinpricks of light over him, pulsing in a gentle twinkle around him, makes the discomfort melt into the background. 

He closes his eyes and runs his hand over his chest aimlessly. 

If Juno were here…

Juno would be kissing him, he decides. On his knees, bracketing Nureyev with his body, naked as Nureyev is now. He imagines the feeling of Juno's skin under his hands, back smooth and soft and _so_ easy to mark if he were to run his nails over that skin. And he knows how Juno would react, knows the way his shocked little moans taste, knows exactly how he opens his mouth up to Nureyev's tongue. 

He scratches his nails over his own stomach and lets his hand trail down. His dick is hard already, sensitive under even a gentle touch. He knows that with more light the camera would pick up the flush to his skin there but as it is the top half of his body is shrouded in shadow, _almost_ leaving the vision between his legs to his viewer's imagination. He lets his eyes fall closed and circles his fingers over himself, starting slow, teasing. Liquid pleasure spills out into his stomach, up to his chest. He gasps like he’s drowning in it and lets his wrist work faster. In his head, he imagines Juno’s reaction. 

He’s done this before. Touched himself in Juno’s lap - or with him pinned beneath him; gotten himself off in Juno’s arms and made him suffer through it without permission to touch either of them until Nureyev comes. It’s always _mouthwatering_ ; the way Juno watches his fingers and kisses him desperately and forces his hips to stop twitching forward for friction that won’t come. The sounds he makes; low in his throat, whimpering without intent to do so. 

And Nureyev's gotten… needy before. Lost his composure and told Juno to _touch me, now, please_ . He thinks right now that's what he would do, and shifts his hips on the mattress as his fingers slide perfectly around his dick. He thinks about telling Juno how much he wants his fingers and the way his eye widens and his breath catches as he covers Nureyev's hand with his own. He thinks about how _bad_ he wants Juno right now, _shit_.

And he clamps his hand over his mouth when the sudden thought of Juno's fingers tugging on him alongside words whispered in his ear makes a moan rip through him. 

Because _god_ , his brain supplies the feeling of Juno's breath on his ear and a whispered _fuck, Nureyev, look at you_. 

He rolls his hips up and hears the bed frame squeak beneath him and the headboard tap against the wall. He bites his lip and feels heat rise to his face. He wonders if there’s anyone on the other side - anyone beyond the wall to hear the noises he’s making. 

It wouldn’t be an issue to Juno. He’s made it abundantly clear how little he cares about being overheard or caught. And Nureyev… well. He _is_ a performer. He shifts his hips a little harsher and hears the satisfying thud of the bed hitting the wall. 

Juno's voice in his head whispers _good boy_ and Nureyev whines into his palm. He imagines those hands over his, Juno's thumb teasing over the head of his dick as Nureyev strokes himself faster. Other hand tugging his own away from his mouth. _You gonna keep those noises to yourself, Nureyev?_

He forces himself to move his fingers away, to grasp at the sheets beside him and let his gasp fall into the open air.

Hearing himself sends a shiver down his spine that he isn't expecting. He bucks his hips up.

_Oh, so good for me, Nureyev._ He knows Juno would be smiling and _oh_ , that _smile_ . The fullness of his lips, the hunger in his eye. _You really like putting on a show, huh?_ Fuck. He does - he's a performer in every sense and Juno sees through it and touches him in a way that makes him feel _real_. The moans he draws from Nureyev's chest are real, the way he squirms on the bed when Juno presses down on his stomach as he fingers him is real, the way he cries out and tries to stifle it is real. 

He slides his fingers down to where he's near dripping and wets them to slide over his dick quicker. He whines frustration at the decrease in friction and in his head Juno laughs. Nureyev thinks about what that laugh would feel like against him. The tickle of his stubble as he slides down his stomach, breath hot and wet against his skin. He knows Juno would mark him up. He knows he would bury his hand in Juno's hair to encourage those marks, knows just how easy it is to pull moans from him with every tug, how easy it is to make Juno sound as _needy_ as he always is.

_Fuck. Nureyev._ He would whine. And Nureyev would twist his fingers carefully in his hair, turn that into a groan and watch Juno cant his hips forward in the air. 

But oh, none of that would even _remotely_ compare to the feeling of Juno eating him out; pressing the flat of his tongue against Nureyev’s dick and then rolling it in a slow circle, sucking him into his mouth with obscene sounds that make Nureyev flush just to think about. 

Every imagined movement of Juno’s mouth alongside the real ones of his fingers sends shockwaves out through his veins, pleasure _filling_ him. 

Oh. There’s a thought. 

Juno’s imagined finger slides into him, no preamble. He’s too lost to the fantasy now to bother with things like preparation, to _care_ about realism. There are two fingers sooner than there had been one and he imagines the feeling of them pressing inside, the stretch and the ache and the sweetness of it. He doesn’t finger himself - doesn’t really want to, and knows that outside of fantasy he _would_ have to prepare himself, which would drag him out of the moment - but he knows where he would feel Juno inside him, how his fingers would feel pushing into him and curving to press upwards. He knows exactly how Juno would pick up his speed, how he’d take Nureyev’s dick into his mouth again and make him want to _scream_ with the feeling. 

His wrist has started to ache now, and he swaps hands and without thinking brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks. 

_God, you - fuck - you really like the taste of yourself, don't you?_

Nureyev moans. He _does_ , but more than that he loves the combination; the slick of his own come on his tongue and Juno's eye on him as he sucks at his fingers (even if right now that eye will only see this through the lens of a camera)

_Show off_. Juno's voice says in the back of his head.

And Nureyev thinks to himself _oh, I can do much more._

He moans intentionally. It’s not something he hasn’t done before, overacted pleasure, but here it feels… different. There’s a thrill through him and the tail end of the sound is more real than he intended. He bites his bottom lip and grins through his next sound. The same wash of pleasure, excitement. The knowledge that Juno _will_ hear these sounds. 

He loses himself in it again; his fingers on his dick, a picture in the back of his mind of Juno’s fingers - _fuck_ \- sinking into him, and the noises he lets come forward. He doesn’t mean to start moving again, but he’s rolling his hips against the sheets with a _need_ soon enough, the cheap bed protesting loudly under him. But not half as loud as he’s being. 

He feels himself getting closer, a thrumming energy wound tight in his abdomen. He presses his shoulders back against the sheets, the pointed tips of the star lights digging in even more uncomfortably, Thrusts his chest out and throws his head back to gasp and groan and _beg_ to be able to come. His legs are spread, one knee up to tilt his hips towards the camera. ( _Fuck_. He keeps remembering the camera.) 

“ _Juno._ ” His begging turns into pleas of Juno’s name. “Oh, _fuck_ , Juno. I’m so -” 

His voice fails as he feels the onset of _almost there, almost there, fuck fuckfuck._ He lies with his mouth hanging open, eyes closed, muscles taut, and then - 

_“Juno_.”

Fuck. 

_Fuck_. 

It happens at once. He comes. Feels the wash of endorphins over him, fill his tense body and force the tension out. 

And at the same time, the bed breaks.

It goes out on one side, the beam snapping away from the leg and hitting the floor with a harsher sound than any Nureyev had been causing. He flinches and rolls away from the fallen side on impulse, and then lies there, dazed, until the sheer stupidity of the whole situation hits him and he barks a laugh that devolves into delighted chuckling as he covers his face with his hands. Well then. 

He picks himself up off of the wreckage of the bed and the mess of lights that stick to his skin as he rises and plucks the comms from the table, tapping to end the recording. His thighs are sticky but he doesn’t move to clean them until he’s drafted, redrafted, and then forced himself to press send on a message to Juno, attaching the encrypted video file alongside it. 

He’s half way through wiping himself down with a flannel in the bathroom when the doorbell rings. He stands, puzzled, for a second, before he remembers the food he ordered. 

He splashes water over his face and chuckles conspiratorially towards his reflection before pulling on his pants and answering the bell. 

About four hundred miles up, Juno opens a video file from his boyfriend and chokes on his bagel.

**Author's Note:**

> okay lmao so i HAVE had a bed break during sex before and its so fucking funny
> 
> hit me up on social media to yell at me! im on tumblr @ nurgayev, twitter is @mxcec and if you're interested my 18+ twitter is @redjorts ! i also have a daily doodle twitter @junootd where. i draw juno. every day. and i AM nearing day fourty. this is a very strange time we live in. 
> 
> stay safe! look after yourself! you're strong and you will make it through!!


End file.
